


All The Devils Are Here

by CallMeHopeless (IAmNotBread)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Bible Quotes, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Blasphemy, Catholic Imagery, Desperation, Duelling, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Forbidden Love, Gothic, Historical References, Incredible Longing Of A Completely Ridiculous Scale, Jealousy, Kicking Some Serious Ass, Kylo Is Kind Of A Badass, Kylo Ren Angst, Latin, Occult, Pining, Reader Is Even Moreso, Reader Will Not Stand For This Bullshit, References to Shakespeare, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Swordfighting, Tender Declarations Of Love, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-01-05 19:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21213671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmNotBread/pseuds/CallMeHopeless
Summary: 1889 dawns, and at the turn of the decade, scandal erupts. Your fiance, Poe Dameron, disappears with no mention of his destination. The London rumours spill forward: he is dead, and you are suspect.Three months later, you seek out information from the one man with motivation to see him dead: a Sir Kylo Ren. A brooding bachelor with no discernible alibis; Kylo is as unhelpful as he is unwilling.But things unravel fast, here in London. The streets are filled with paranoia, desperation, and macabre arts. In order to find your missing love, you must delve into the strange world below the beating heart of the city, into the underbelly of occult and a dark history.For Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.





	1. I. Damnum

**THREE MONTHS EARLIER**

"Draw your weapon," Poe hisses through gritted teeth. Mud cakes his shoes, the rain soaking his hair in the dim light. When Kylo barely moves his dripping fingers, Poe slips his pistol from its holster.

He cocks the safety.

"I said DRAW YOUR WEAPON, YOU COWARD!"

The trees whisper: the parklands reeking of smoke and damp and dirt. Poe feels the lashings on his coat as though hands would tear away the fabric; as though the cloth on his back would succumb to the tendrils of the London rot. This decay feeds on everything in the city - the lifeforce of thousands of weary souls, washed away in the rushing black of the Thames.

And Mr Kylo Ren is not immune to that, either.

His black hair sticks to his cheeks: hand on the grip. His coat is soaked through, right down to the bone, right down to the very heart of him.

There is no fear. These men have no need for it.

This is honour.

He pulls the pistol from its holster as the sky cracks white: a flash in the dark, burning through the sky.

Perhaps Kylo Ren has inherited a great many things from his grandfather. Perhaps his stubbornness, his arrogance. Perhaps he has inherited his sword arm: in fact, Poe knows it to be so. Pistols, for good reason, were decided upon.

Perhaps he has carried forward the evil that brings them here. A legacy - a buried loyalty, deep in the family name.

Skywalker. _Skywalker_.

May the Lord have no mercy on any who claim it.

"No amount of posturing will bring them back." Kylo licks his lips, brow creasing. A spark of genuine sadness seems to fill the void between them: but Poe sees it for the lie it is. "Your death will avenge no-one."

Poe shoots his eyes up to the swirling clouds, the torrent of rainfall. It fills his eyes and wets chalky drops into his mouth: sinking through the cracks in his lips as he smirks. Humourless, it rises from him in a bout of quiet rage - fills him with this feeling of strange, unabashed stillness.

"No," he snaps his gaze down. "But yours will."

"Gentlemen--" Hux calls, against the backdrop of the stormy sky. "On my mark."

Kylo cocks the safety; Poe feels his breath hurt in his lungs.

This is it.

He avenges them today. Avenges them for every wrong - for the day the Skywalker name left them dead and dying. For the day his family was torn asunder by a man without honour, without good faith, without any sense of right. A man who dealt in evil doings: who signed himself away to darkness and pain.

Today, Poe Dameron avenges his parents.

Today, he kills the bloodline and puts an end to a century of feuds.

The wind whips - the handkerchief drops.

And the world drops to silence.

* * *

**ALL THE DEVILS ARE HERE**

**I. DAMNUM**

**Today, 28th October, 1898**

Poe Dameron is dead.

They whisper over tea in parlours through the country: in the workhouses, they hear of the scandal and rumour that resounds across the Thames. His death was sudden, the papers say. Unexpected, but not unlikely. He was a rogueish man; untamed by any woman, by any modern fancies or material desires. He chased adventure: craved a life of fantastical voyages, of eccentricity. And despite this - he loved his fiance with all his heart.

But suspicion is a dark and twisted thing.

Tonight, it is rife - it lingers in the quiet corners of the ballroom, long after it has stayed its due. Your dress is all in soft cream: beading at the bodice, dipping at the neck. It is important, now, to show the finery your parents long since prayed you'd sport in the social season. Fortunes have changed, they say. There was no marriage, and so that must be rectified.

But tonight: nothing is further from your mind.

Lacework spills across the floor as you take a cup of wine from a passing server, crimson in the goblet dancing on the edges. Everything is refinement: angels dance on the ceiling, reaching hands out into the twisting garden.

Serpents lurk. They wait in the dark.

Whispers float as you walk by: always whispers, hushed under the breath like poison on lips. _Did you hear she killed her husband-to-be? She always was a strange girl; despite her station, she lacks composure._

Maz Katana has always taken to hosting the most lavish parties; no expense is spared, for a widow long into her latest days. She outlives them all - drinking nothing but the most expensive brandies in the summer: playing cards with bachelors who are yet to give up on the chance to take the smallest sum of her fortune. She will outlive every last person in this city - you have no doubt of it.

But Maz is not the woman you're here to see. You aren't here to socialise with kind London socialites; you aren't here to sell your story, to advocate for your sanity or composure or station, regardless of the temptation for it.

You are here for _him_.

Kylo Ren. Mr.Ren, if you like: is the most ineligible bachelor this side of Coventry. Despite his "modest" fortune and having no shortage of young women fawning over him - he is utterly, completely closed-off. His friends (and that is a term that carries something generous) are nothing short of sneering, pompous creatures that roam country estates, sleeping with scullery maids while their wives wait on young children.

Mr. Ren himself cannot be said to be anything if not handsome - if handsomeness and a twisted, thinly worn scowl, that is. His hair is dark, thick. Eyes heavily lashed, all brown and cautious. Fair-skinned and freckled, thin-faced and plush lipped. He always gives an air of something bored: conversation with him is often tiresome, to those who have tried it. You have never had the inclination, nor the pleasure.

You have heard quite enough about such a man.

Enough to make you certain he is nothing if not guilty.

He stands with his back to you: no top hat, hair curled in the warm air. Mr. Hux has clearly engaged his attentions: likely in complaining of the quality of the food, or the lack of improper company. Either way - the towering size of him as you approach in careful steps does nothing to ease expectations. He is, and always will be, too broad for his own good.

"--they asked to host him over the Spring, when Mitaka is called away to some ill-fated respite. His mother, I think. Taken ill, as she always is--"

Hux drones on, red hair cropped short as he sneers at your approach. 

"Good evening, Mr. Hux." You keep it clipped - your disdain for him is perfectly well established. No sense letting him live on in a falsehood. "Mr. Ren."

Mr. Ren's signature scowl dips into his brow, lips twitching. Somehow, he still manages to maintain something oddly beautiful in his gaze: you begin to see now why the women in your social circles take to him, even if it is nothing but a surface-level attraction.

"Miss Dameron."

You smile politely, tipping your head. It still punches in your chest: the wind removed from it, as though from some invisible force.

"Not quite, sir."

_But you would know that, wouldn't you, sir?_

Mr. Hux's face shifts to something akin to cruel amusement. Mr. Ren's, on the other hand, does not. His hand tightens around his goblet: he sniffs nonchalantly, almost, but for something that plays across his features in the warm light of the party. Something hidden: buried under the weight of a guilty conscience, perhaps.

"My condolences. Mr. Dameron was quite..." Mr. Ren suffers for words - insufferably stuffy as he tries for a lie that seems sincere. "...a bold sort of gentleman."

_Bold._

"Yes, well. I have no doubt you might find he and I have that in common."

Mr. Ren's eyes narrow. "Had."

You do not correct him.

"I was wondering," you drum your fingers on your glass, sipping at the rich blend in your glass. "Whether I might have a private audience with you, sir? I have matters of interest I feel must be discussed."

Mr. Ren takes a moment, straightening in his jacket. His silk necktie pulls at his throat as he swallows: when he shrugs and turns to look around impatiently, it is almost crude. Almost completely disinterested.

Hardly a gentleman at all.

He follows when you turn, trailing through the ballroom as your skirts drag on the marble floor. Music drifts somewhere in the foyer, now: someone plays piano, soft notes as you find mahogany doors to the study. You have visited so many times that this London estate is easy to access, easy to move through as though it were breathing. As though the walls are your own when you turn the brass handle, moving through into the firelit room.

A desk sits in the center: old papers stacked haphazardly. Family portraits, painted with careful hands, watch on from the mantle: eyes following as Mr. Ren eclipses through the door and closes it behind him. His eyes shift in the flickering light - something pulling at his lips as they twist.

Strange. Strange.

Mr. Ren scans the room with cautious movements, one hand in his pocket as the other on his goblet. You lean back against the chair, fingers clamping around the back as you place your wine glass down.

"Mr. Ren," you take a shaky breath. "I understand you know my betrothed. That your families have historically been engaged in--"

"--Mr. Dameron long held beliefs that my family were responsible for the ill-fate of his own." Mr. Ren looks almost bored; his jaw working as he bites at his lip. "I assure you; I felt no mutual ill will to him."

"But you admit to having met him. Having engaged his company."

"Occasionally."

You feel anger bubbling in your chest: rising under your skin like molten metal in your veins. Outside, there is laughter - somewhere, you hear the piano playing a high note, a lady trying to sing along.

The pause is tangible as his eyes flicker to yours.

Dark. Brown-black. Ancient eyes - older than a man could hope to be. 

Distant starlight.

You swallow. 

"Do not insult my intelligence, sir."

"I couldn't possibly hope to."

He is...he is _unbelievable_.

"Mr. Ren: you will tell me. You will tell me when the last time you saw my betrothed was." You step around the chair, dress rustling as the fire licks at your back. "I assure you, Sir: I will find the truth, so help me. If I find my suspicions to be correct--"

He steps forward to meet you: one long stride that brings him within arm's reach. He towers in the dark; hair threaded with copper in the light of the study. The scent of fresh rain fills your nose - and something else, too. Your head spins with it.

"And pray tell me," he shakes his head softly. "What are your suspicions? That I murdered your love, out of some form of tryst of passion? That I followed a falsified legacy to throw an innocent man to his death?" His voice is low, now: low and dark, thick with powerful sharpness. "Let me assure you - I have not seen your Mr. Dameron for at least half a year. Not that I have had any wish whatsoever to, since his intention has entirely been to disgrace my family name for a great many years."

Your resolve wavers. The lump in your throat sits - it will not abate, no matter how hard you will it away. Are you mistaken, now? Mistaken in believing this man to be the last possible murderer, the one man responsible for taking your future from you?

_Blind want,_ your father had once said, _is the end of reason and reality._

It hurts. It hurts too much.

"You must understand..." you clench your fists, pulling at the fabric of your dress. "You must see...see how I would take to the assumption..."

Mr. Ren straightens: he places his goblet on the desk, sucking the inside of his cheek. Freckles on his face dance as his fingers twitch, his palour almost sickly in the warmth.

"I _am_ sorry," he says quietly. "For your loss. And that you should find yourself in this position. I wish you good fortune in moving forwards with your life."

He takes several steps towards the door; moving for the brass knob as his face turns away.

_"Mr. Ren."_

He turns, ever so slightly. His hand braced on the doorknob; eyes down on the frame of the door.

As though he knows where this line of questioning has sought to tread.

"I must know one thing." your voice wavers, darting on inflections as your tongue swells in your mouth. "What was the ill-will he believed your family wrought upon his?"

Mr. Ren hesitates.

He moves as though to leave - but then, he hesitates yet again.

"He believed my grandfather was responsible for the death of his parents."

Oh. You knew they had passed away under tragic circumstances - but you had never guessed--

"How?" you ask, and it's so quiet. Melodic and sharp; a prayer in a dark place.

Kylo Ren bites his lip. Swallows hard.

"Evil magicks," he replies.

And then, he is gone.

And the room grows very, very cold.


	2. II: Caedis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the dark streets of London, you search for answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys asked me to bring this back, so I've delivered! Let me know if it's on the mark - there's a lot more to come if you're enjoying it, and I'm really looking forward to where this is taking us!
> 
> TW: for injury and the reader being attacked. Stay safe!

**SIX MONTHS EARLIER**

"Tell me a secret."

Spring breezes bring the fresh scent of heather in the afternoon sunlight; playing at the deep brown in his hair as he strokes along the bones of your fingers. The world is his - that much he knows.

A ring is kept in the top drawer of his sturdy dresser in the study, and he feels as though the world holds limitless possibilities at the thought of it slipped around your finger.

"A secret," he hums, staring out to the horizon. Smiles filter over his lips as you hold your hat; breeze threatening to take the ribbons at your throat with them over the cliff's edge. He accompanied you to buy them, and will always do so.

He can deny you nothing. Heaven and Earth would move from their very foundations if you asked him to pull them down.

"You'd like me to believe a man like you knows no secrets?"

Poe's laugh is hearty as he sucks his lip, shrugging his shoulder.

"I'd like you to believe it," he chuckles, "but that doesn't make it so."

"Come on then. _Enlighten me."_

"Promise me," Poe points a finger, gesturing to your lips, "you promise me now that there'll be no mocking. You swear it."

"You know I can't do that."

Giddy on the warmth in his lungs, Poe's body winds with yours as he tackles you to the floor. Your laughter rings out; this beautiful melody that he can't help but crave to capture, can't help but need for kindling, when the nights grow long.

"Promise!" he demands, fingers tickling across your ribs. Even through the thick material, his fingers brush against sensitive skin; making you kick and shriek in joy.

"Fine! I promise."

He lets up; sitting back up on the blanket as a gull flies overhead. Its cries fills the air, and Poe wonders if this is a mistake.

"Do you believe in fate?"

You bite your lip, running your fingers over your jaw.

"Fate?"

"That there is a plan. A universal higher truth, laid out for us long before we were brought into the world."

The breeze laps at his skin, and Poe shifts on the spot. He can almost hear the thoughts rattling in your head; hear the way you turn the question.

"I believe...choices can change the tide of things. I can't speak for destiny, though. I've never had much cause to think of my place in it."

He hesitates.

"From what I hear, my parents spoke of destiny. A legacy they carried, to fight evil where it resides. Hidden things in the half-world: pausing in the shadows."

You are silent, for a long moment.

And then: your laughter rings out.

"You promised!" Poe scowls, batting his hand at your wrist.

"Come now, Poe - you can't tease me with such things and expect nothing of it."

The sky is a distant blue; breeze playing at your hair when he kisses the smile from your lips. Stolen in a moment of madness; he cannot help but love the way the world is yours to take.

He says no more of this.

Lets what is old die.

Stories are stories - and Poe Dameron cannot bring himself to chase ghosts.

* * *

**ALL THE DEVILS ARE HERE**

**II. CAEDIS**

**Today, 3rd November, 1898**

The London air is freezing in the night.

City streets are changing with the times: clawing forwards to grip an uncertain future as the century threatens to turn. It is the way of things, as they have always been, to graft a future from a world awash with fear.

Hopeful and hopeless, in equal measure.

The streets are cold, dark places as you turn through the lanes; gloves riding on your fingertips, protecting you from the bite of the air. Somewhere, the bells of Saint Paul's Cathedral chime to show the hour is ticking over. Too late now to be seeking through dark alleyways, in the long hours before midnight when the city sleeps.

But questions need answers like a bullet needs a gun, and you cannot turn back now, even if you want to.

You step over a drunken man, clinging to a half-empty bottle of liquor as your skirts trail over cobbles, fear prickling at the small of your back. The street signs have no numbers, but the paper in your gloved hand crinkles anyway.

_Zorii_.

Whether a title of a name, you can't be certain.

But the address leads through winding streets of The Devils Acre; darkness and smoke and the smell of rotten death rising up in your nose. Houses all blur together in crude, crooked dwellings; misshapen in the dark shadow of the looming Abbey as you count the doorways.

At the third on the left, you take a step up.

The curtains are drawn; no lamplight glowing from inside the battered windows. What little you can see of a high-set ledge has a thin layer of dirt on the bricks, covering each with a smatter of mud.

Your prayer is silent when you knock: a rap on the door in the late hours of the night.

No answer.

Frustration rises to fight with fear, and your subsequent knock is a pound against woodwork: demanding answers from a character you've yet to discern. A lead where all leads have been lost - and one last road back to Poe Dameron, if any exist.

Once again, there is silence.

Cold wind rattles through your bones; your jaw working at the hopelessness of the case. If this is all for naught, then the last true lead to your love's whereabouts is washed away in the black waters of the Thames. Taken from you, with no hope of relief.

Tears sting at your eyes, and you take a step back.

Tomorrow, you'll return.

Crumpling the paper into a pocket, you turn on heel and hold your jaw firm as you make your way to the end of the street.

And a voice follows.

_"Miss Dameron?"_

A decidedly gravelly quality fills your ears as a figure approaches from the dark; barely discerned in the dim lamplight some paces away. At first, you hold out a hopefulness, however small, that this Zorii has found you by coincidence and luck.

The man's hat is low, and his face is obscured from the light.

"You shouldn't be here at this hour, Miss." The wind picks up; blustery as it peels through the alley behind you. "It's not safe to be wandering these streets at night."

Something shivers through your blood.

"I'm perfectly capable of defending my welfare, Sir."

He reaches into his pocket.

"I know."

The knife glints in the light; his approach quick enough to have you stumbling backwards against cobbled bricks. Too fearful to scream; you back away and scramble for your boot - pulling out the small dagger sheathed away in the right boot.

It was Poe's, once. Kept it with him wherever he went.

_A promise,_ he'd said, _to destiny._

You peel backward, hand shaking as the man freezes.

"Come near me," you shiver, "and I'll take your fingers as well as your knife."

His laugh is cold. Deep and dark as he moves forward decidedly.

"I welcome it,_ Venefica."_

His hands grapple at your dress; fisting at the fabric as you try to push against the assailant grasping for your throat. Pain stings across your palm, eliciting a yelp from your lips as you kick and push at anything you can.

Not like this. _Not like this._

Blood drips from the wound, your body tearing in pain as his cold fingers try to wrestle your knife from your grip. The dagger holds fast, bending back to his thumb as you cry out in frustration.

"Relent," he hisses, panting on your neck, "there's no need to _die_ with him."

And like that - the blade slices a thin cut on his wrist.

A scream unlike any you've heard rips from his throat, blood spattering to the cobbles as his grip on you loosens. His shadowed face is still sheltered from the dim light, but his wrist trails more blood than you've seen in all your days.

He bellows: shaking and moving backward, so fast that your eyes widen in utter shock. No man should move like this; not one in all the natural world as he shrinks back into the dark.

The air bites in cold blusters, and you slump to the floor in shock.

Somewhere from the darkness on the other side of the street, footsteps approach. A figure, tall and menacing and ghostly in the dark stalks closer - movements predatory, black hair whipping over its face.

"Get back!" you cry out, holding the point of your blade out. "Get back, or I swear I'll--"

"Miss _Dameron?"_

His hair is ruffled by the wind; black felt coat tight around his shoulders. The knit of his scarf curls around his throat, and though you feel a terrible fear: relief stirs in your chest.

"Mr. Ren..." you shakily say, trying to stagger to your feet. You nearly trip on your skirts as he stays frozen; eyes obscured by the dark. "...Sir, we must leave. You see--"

"--What are you doing out here?"

You clench your torn glove to your chest; feeling the warmth seep into the fabric.

"I was..." your voice shakes, tears welling up as you hold the dagger loosely in your palm. "...Attacked. A man...A thing, some...some inhuman being tried to threaten me--"

"Threatened?"

His voice is strained; distant and strained and so very strange.

"He moved so fast...towards the river and I...I..." on wobbly feet you start towards him, and he actively steps away, flinching.

"Mr. Ren?" you ask, almost incredulous at the stillness of his figure in the darkness.

At the spattered blood on the cobbles, and the knife in your hand.

"...I wounded him. Self-defense, I...had to...his screams were like nails in my spine. He lunged at me, said something..." your hand throbs. "Surely you heard?"

He swallows, and you notice a wound on his mouth.

"Go home," Kylo says shakily. "You need to go home and lock the door. Have the housekeeper bring you salt..._any salt_..." he trails off, shaking his head. "Under the door. Windows. Put it under the windows."

Stars spark at the corners of your vision, and your brow dips.

Blood is smeared over his red lips; what looks like the remnants of a barfight, and a crumpled jaw to boot, from the way he holds it.

"Did you win?" you slur, the world spinning.

Kylo hesitates. His eyes are still obscured, but you note the dip of his lips into a frown.

"Miss Dameron?"

Time stutters; your palm fizzing and cracking in a way that feels too odd to explain. Pain shoots through your arm, and the London night air punches through your lungs in a whistle.

"Bet...you didn't..."

The knife clatters as you crumple, the world jumping forwards and back.

_"Tell me a secret,"_ Poe whispers in your ear. _"Promise me."_

Hands brace you as you're lifted into the air; bathed in the stars.

And the world fizzes into blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am already loving writing this.
> 
> [Come and say hi on Tumblr?](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	3. III. Periculum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A note leads you to unravelling more mysteries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came 2nd on my update poll, so here. Have some Victorian weirdness

**THREE MONTHS EARLIER**

July 17th, 1898

_Dear Mr. Dameron,  
  
_

_Word travels fast._

_I have heard through whispers that you seek information regarding the passing of your parents, some years ago._

_While I cannot divulge to you anything concrete; I have information that may prove invaluable._

_I ask nothing in return, but that you heed this letter. Whatever good or ill you intend with this information - know that there will be no going back._

_Meet me by the statue of Peel, in Parliament Square. Two days from now: 6'oclock sharp._

_Tell no one of this meeting. Burn this letter, if you must._

_Divulge_ _ nothing._

_Sincerely,_

_A Friend._

* * *

**ALL THE DEVILS ARE HERE**

**III. PERICULUM**

**Today, the 4th of November, 1898**

_Light._

It swims like water on the pillows - tracing, pulling and pushing with the ripples of the tide. Clouds drift serendipitously, and you feel the soft warmth of the sheets spooling out under you.

Your sheets. The clean scent of your own bed.

Fingertips twitch as you stir; a yawn on your lips and an ache in your wrist. Breakfast is usually served at 8 o'clock, if you so wish it. Kaydel has grown accustomed to your tastes, and the ways you like your eggs cooked and cracked.

You wonder why she hasn't woken you.

Wonder if she knows you're here.

Wonder when you came home, last night.

Wonder...

It hits like lightning: a clap as you gasp, shooting up in the sheets. Your dress is folded on the armchair on the corner - someone having removed it, unbuttoned the lace and left you in nothing but undergarments. 

You hold up your hand, and _surely not._

_Surely._

The scar is puckered. Off-pink and raised as it slices right through the skin, but very much a healed thing. No blood scabs the wound; there is nothing to indicate it was made last night. Nothing to show it was so deep and newly made.

_It can't be possible._

Memories swim: reaching for Poe's knife, and the glint of silver. A blade, slicing through skin.

A man, moving like a shadow in the dark.

Kylo. Jaw loose, eyes hidden.

And a breathless sound hitches in your lungs.

_No._

You're staggering to your feet before you know it - reaching for the dress and examining the fabric. A blood stain winds up the sleeve; spattered deep red coiling down the skirts, prints from your hand fisting at the layers, and God...how can this be real?

Things like this cannot exist, in the world you know. There is no cause for it: no rhyme or reason to save you, to push your understanding and give you cause to believe these impossible things.

Turning, you move to the dresser to find clothes for the day ahead.

Crumpled, atop the worn wood: you find a note.

The handwriting is beautiful; scrawled in fine loops and swirls that catch and fall like the tide on stone. Plucking it up, you scan the yellowed paper:

> _Noon._
> 
> _Queen Victoria Street._
> 
> _Look for the green fencing._
> 
> \- Kylo Ren

The paper crumples in your fingertips. Crinkles in your hand, as you pull open the drawers of your dresser and seek out a suitable dress. Cool weather and changing fashions have forced you buy the latest cuts of fabric; but you have to wonder just how many may be stained with your own blood, by the end of the month.

If it brings your lover back to you?

Perhaps it doesn't matter at all.

* * *

Queen Victoria Street is, as always: unmanagable.

People bustle by in thick coats and gloves, carriages being drawn this way and that. A horse beys as you pass along as briskly as you can, faintly aware of the scent of mud and smoke rising in the midday light.

Blue sky is a rarity in London. Today, it is as if God himself as swept away every last cloud in the sky.

Cobbles press underfoot when you look left and right; following the road as it curves through the streets. Red brickwork and peeled paint signs come and go, with no sign of rusted green in sight.

Perhaps you're too early. Too late.

Maybe you shouldn't have come.

But moments later, you spot up ahead a dilapidated, run down building on the edge of the street. A side-alley pushes through the grey walls; separates them out, as faded green spikes poke up towards the sky.

Leaning against the wall, jaw tight as it ever is: Kylo's hands tighten.

He looks ill, you note, even from this distance. Purple circles framing his bloodshot eyes; skin flushed as though the air is freezing cold. The very way he holds his body hints he might be sore - muscles aching as he frowns in the bright light.

His sleep has been worse than yours, maybe.

"Mr. Ren."

Your red dress catches on your ankles: hands clasped as your throat bobs. Kylo's towering form seems to shudder at the sight of you approaching, and as if by habit, he casts a look out towards the crowd.

"Miss Dameron."

Once again, you dare not correct him.

A silence hangs, expectant and chilly. Neither one of you breaks it as he slides away from the wall, following it through the side alley without looking back.

This is your invitation to follow, and you will not refuse it.

The alley grows tighter, and Kylo winds through buildings packed together in a deathly silence. His nails dig into his palms, coattails licking in the air.

He leads you to a grimy shopfront; windows worn down and chipped. Cracks in the brickwork tell a story of a place long forgotten, and in one corner, you note some strange scrawl that has faded over a great many years.

Under the sheltered overhang that preceeds the doorway, Kylo comes to a stop.

His breath is relieved, as he leans his back against the filthy glass.

"You have questions," he chews his lip, mouth working as he shrugs, "no doubt."

"I don't hold much hope you'll tell me the truth."

Kylo blinks, brow dipping.

"What cause would I have to lie to you?"

_What cause does he have to tell you the truth?_

You hesitate, for a moment.

"I..." you wring your hands, stepping closer to Kylo.

He almost imperceptibly moves away.

"What was that? _What was he?"_

"I don't know."

You huff.

"You told me to--"

"--the _blade,"_ he interrupts, irritated, "was soaked in a paralytic poison."

Paralytic.

Not meant to kill.

_There's no need to die with him._

"And the salt?"

Kylo runs a hand through his dark hair; taking a breath.

"Precaution."

"Against?"

"Against him."

Anger seethes, bubbling in your chest as you laugh in disbelief.

"You claim to offer the truth but like playing games, don't you? Or is your hostility so ingrained now that you seldom find it possible to _truly know someone?"_

He pushes off from the window, pacing away with clenched fists. On reaching the end of the shadow cast by the building, he turns with a palpable, pained irritation.

"Answers in this city are a commodity that come with a price. One I would rather you need not pay."

Your eyes roll.

"What _price?"_

Kylo cuts in front of you; turning the worn, brass handle on the shop door.

"Blood," he murmurs, stepping inside.

The shop itself is crowded with junk and antiques. Curios pile the shelves with glass balls, or gnarled paws of animals you can't quite make out. Candlelight gives eerie reflections to cracked china crockery, imprinted with symbols that seem to twist and coil. Snakes, pickled in jars, almost seem to slither as the flickers of gold spray across the room.

The very air reeks of dust and incense. Spice, deep and heady in a dark place.

Kylo clears his throat, ringing an old bell left on a small table.

On the other side of Kylo; a sound clicks.

"You've got three seconds."

A woman steps out of the shadows. Black hair cut at a jutting angle frames her gentle face, warped into an angry scowl as she hoists a rifle on her shoulder. The barrel faces Kylo square in the chest, and your tongue aches in your mouth.

"She needs scrying. There was an attack--"

"Get. Out." she snaps, baring her teeth as she takes a step forward. Her trigger finger squeezes just lightly. "_Spiders_ aren't welcome in my fucking shop."

Kylo steps backward - boots on the wooden floor as he backs up against the door.

"I would never--"

The woman snarls, spitting words as she glares at him.

_"In manus tuas commendo spiritum--"_

And just like that, Kylo _bursts _through the doorway; throwing it open and ripping outside onto the cobbles. He seems to stagger to the floor as the door swings shut behind him, fear gluing you to the spot as the woman slowly lowers her gun.

"Tell me," she shakes her head, breathless as she sets the rifle up against the wall, "just what the in the name of God you're doing following it."

It?

"I..." you shiver, mouth dryer than the desert sun, "...I was attacked. Last night, there was...m-my betrothed is missing, and this...this man, this creature, it just..."

She waits: eyes on yours.

Realisation seems to dawn, and she steps forward. Skirts billow, and her approach is curious.

"You really, really don't know, do you?"

You swallow.

"Know what?"

Her brown dress drags as she moves to examine you; looking at your hand and seizing it in rough palms.

You can't see Kylo outside, even through the groggy windows.

"Is he going to--"

"--you're a real one. Like an actual, real, flesh-and-blood _human being."_

You blink.

What?

"You..."

"Oh! No, it's not that I'm...not one. It's that you're green as they come. You're totally uninitiated - like, no trace on you at all of any prints. You're in my shop and you've got a slash on you from a woeblade and you're not even...I mean, not _once_."

It doesn't make sense.

The world just...

"I don't understand. I don't know what's going on."

She traces the puckered line that draws across your hand; almost entranced by it.

"The cut is precise," she murmurs to herself, "goes just far enough into the blood to push a mark. Poison's probably very rare - backend market trade. Gunsmoke."

Gunsmoke?

You try to seize your hand away, but her brown eyes find yours as she lets go.

Her brow dips.

"He carried you," she says, and her voice is so distant, "over the river. Over the bridge. There was...a moment. No, two - two moments, and he...it was a debt. A promise he made. It will be...will be a choice. Don't run. When the bishop knocks - don't open it. When the name is gone; the fire lights. You'll miss three steps; drowning in the black. He's waiting. Bite down. The wheel will rise and fall, and he'll...bleed. Not blood, though: not blood..."

She phases out, and she shakes her head.

"I don't have the answers you need to find him. But I have a friend - a demonologist at King's College. Show him that," she gestures to your hand, "he'll tell you what you need to know. I'll write to him."

You take a shaky breath.

"Demonologist," you repeat, and the sound is like it's being punched from your lungs.

She nods, solemn in the low light.

"I want you to know," she softly says, "that you always have a choice. But sometimes," she steps back, into the dusty shop, "we'll both wish you didn't."

"Wait!" you cry out, willing your legs to move. You try to dodge around the counter; but you can't quite seem to find the spot she moved through. 

Can't quite seem to get around to see where she went.

"Who are you?" you call out, gritting your teeth as you lean over.

And from the back, you hear her quiet voice.

"I'm Rose."

With that; you open up the door.

Your hands don't stop shaking, even in the bright light.

Kylo is still on the street as you exit; standing under the shade of an abandoned old house. He looks so dreadful that for a moment, you genuinely fear for him: clutching at his stomach and swaying, faint and gaunt as ever.

"Ky--"

He holds up a hand to stop you, gulping at air. Grasping at his necktie, he pulls it loose and clutches at his throat. The pale twist of his neck is bared to you; there, you see a curious looking mark that blotches on the surface of his skin.

"She's a witch?" you ask, taking a step towards him.

Kylo shakes his head furiously, spitting something on the cobblestones. Red spatters on the rocks; you gasp, fearful at the sight.

"Mercy," you whisper, cupping your hand to your mouth.

Kylo staggers, wiping his mouth on the back of his palm as he straightens. Pinkish-red smears across his knuckles; and his laugh is humourless as he sways in the shadows.

"If only there were any left to spare."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's such a gromp
> 
> [Come and say hi on Tumblr?](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	4. IV. Poena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A carriage trip is quickly interrupted, when danger draws near.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WAS FEELING MOTIVATED
> 
> TW: for relatively graphic violence and death

**THREE MONTHS EARLIER**

July 19th, 1898.

"They say that fate," she tells him, "is a wheel."

Poe Dameron cannot say for sure he knows what they say. But years of a classical education have taught him enough of Chaucer and Shakespeare to know of the turning of the wheel: spokes that rise and fall on hands that spin, until it all sifts away like sand.

He clenches his fists at his side, and lets her proceed.

"But tell me, Poe Dameron: how many wars do you think have been fought to turn the tides of fate?"

He scoffs.

"More than I can count."

When she smiles; it is with the curl of a lip. Her head shakes, as she shuffles a deck of cards in her hands.

"There was only ever one war. There will only ever be _one_ war."

With slim fingers adorned with rings: she sets down the first card.

_The Lovers._

"The light and the dark. Good and evil. The righteous and the spurned. God..."

She flips over the next card, and the face stares at him through sharp teeth.

"...And the Devil."

He grates his teeth, and impatience filters in his veins.

"Can we reach _the point?"_

Her hand hovers over the hidden face of the third card.

"Fate was never a wheel, Mister Dameron. It is a coin with two faces: two opposing forces, staring in the forms of Light and Darkness as they fall."

She leans in closer, and Poe can see the whites of her teeth.

"And if you shoot the face of The Devil..."

She flips over the third card: brick and mortar, burning with fire.

_The Tower._

"...God _bleeds_."

* * *

**ALL THE DEVILS ARE HERE**

**IV. POENA**

**Today, the 4th of November, 1898**

Kylo does not improve as you return to the carriage: an air of silence that hangs thick, clawing at your blood until you feel a fire within the very bones of you. He stumbles, almost half-aware - and when you guide him into your carriage, he lets up no resistance.

"You look _dreadful_."

It escapes you in a gasp as the carriage driver closes the door behind you both; sunlight refracting through the glass and heating the velvet interior. Kylo's jaw works into a deep scowl, and with a huff of displeasure he draws the carriage curtains so that his side is obscured from the glare of the sun.

He shuffles into the seat opposite you: as far into the corner furthest from you as the space will allow. His head braces against the window, and he squeezes his dark eyes shut.

"I'm _fine_, Miss Dameron. I wasn't anticipating..." he swallows, and Kylo's hair splays along his cheek. "...Warm welcomes have never been given as a commodity to me by Miss Tico."

You tuck your feet in, settling your hands in your lap and wringing them nervously.

"Well her command of classical latin is frighteningly good."

Kylo is quiet, for a moment.

"You noticed that."

"Not enough to have any sense of the meaning."

He runs his fingers over his top lip; then over his jaw as the carriage pulls away slowly. Kylo's whole body is tight and pained: his eyes closed, the lids purpled and bruised-looking.

You break his strange massaging with further prompting.

"I suppose you won't tell me what she said."

"Well deduced."

His words are hoarse: ripped from his lips as though speaking is adding to a discomfort you don't understand. Was he injured last night, too? Attacked by whatever forces aimed to attack you, but too proud to say so? Pained and poisoned, in a way that should make you fearful of what's to come?

If he dies - you will be implicated without a doubt.

And so this must be addressed. Must be dealt with now, before anything else happens.

"Mr. Ren," you lick your lips, and determination settles deep in your stomach, "I am not an unreasonable woman. But now my patience has been tried and I am tired of these half-truths and games you are playing to keep me from truths you deem too...too complex for my understanding. If we are to have _any _chance of finding these attackers; I must have the truth! I cannot live in a world of veiled stories and concealed shadow-men without your trust, and you cannot have a hope of thinking I will not pursue justice against you if I believe you are hiding things from me, Sir."

Kylo does not open his eyes.

Does not pout, or sigh, or shake his head.

He just...waits. Still, and half-flinched.

Frustration rips from your throat. Angrily, you cry out:

"Am I the only one who--"

"--I don't know what it was. I don't know, and I should. But the cut was deep enough that you fainted from the paralytic, and I knew I had to take you somewhere safe."

Kylo's throat bobs.

"I carried you until we made it back out of harm. You fell in and out of lucidity too fast to properly walk, but...we were able to make it back to your estate, and the poison burned off. I stayed to keep watch for some time, but nothing came; nobody saw us. But the dagger you have..."

Instinctively, you feel for the metal wedged into your boot.

"...it's blessed. And plated with silver. If the blood on the cobbles is truly his: then he was brought to you by something else entirely than a simple murderer with a grudge."

You make a sound of disbelief.

"Demons?"

Kylo's eyes flutter open; facing away, he rests his forehead against the glass.

"I can't say for sure."

You just...

"You want me to accept," you tell him, eyes wide and heart pounding as the carriage rocks, "you want me to accept a world with dark magick and demons? You want me to believe they tried to murder my future husband? That they're trying to murder _me?"_

Kylo's jaw works.

"Accepting it may save your life."

"And you know this because of some...some ill-fated power your grandfather owned? A curse?"

His jaw tightens, and Kylo takes a shaky breath as his hand returns to his mouth. This time, he gives his jaw a tight squeeze; hissing a curse under his breath.

"Stop the carriage," he trembles, hand already reaching for the locked door. "I need to--"

"--are you al--"

"--Miss Dameron, you need to stay--"

_ **THUNK.** _

The deceleration is sudden; the window on the freed side showing an alleyway you recognise as the carriage is pulled to an abrupt halt. You tumble forwards, and Kylo's reaction is immediate as he braces you with strong arms. His skin is cool to the touch; scent of something strange clinging to his breath as he reaches into his coat.

"What was..." you gasp, trying to sit up as your skirts bunch in the low light.

And that's when red spatters _all over_ the window.

Your scream is piercing as the body hangs limp; the carriage driver sliced and dripping blood over the glass, staining it a grizzly red. The scene is something too horrific to comprehend, but Kylo's hand wraps loosely over your mouth to stifle the sound that tears from your throat.

When he turns your face from the window, you see him facing as far away as he possibly can from the splattered blood. Kylo hushes rushed placations to you, and the sound of his loose hand cocking a pistol echoes on the walls.

"Look at me."

He tips your chin up, and Dear God - but he looks so cold, in this moment.

Powerful and strong and dangerous: something in Kylo's expression is ruinous. Thunder, crashing in the dark of a forest and splitting every branch asunder. Eyelashes thick and dark as he swallows, and his thumb braces right against your chin.

"When I say to go," he whispers, handing you the cocked pistol and sliding your fingers over the trigger, "you start walking slowly, Miss Dameron. Counting up to ten - and when you reach ten - I want you to run as fast as you can. I want you to run as fast as you can, and take the first right onto George Street. Follow it up, then take your third right and follow the pathway until you reach the doorway."

What--

"--Kylo, I--!"

"Don't look back,_ whatever you do."_

"You can't expect me to leave y--"

"--Miss Dameron!" he hisses, shaking your shoulders, "_Swear it!_ I'll meet you there."

You can't breathe.

_Can't think._

"I swear."

Kylo's face darkens as he lets go of your shoulders; swallowing thickly as his hands find the carriage door. Flicking the lock, he seems to mentally brace himself as he looks back at you.

"Don't look back," he whispers.

And then, just like that: he steps out into the light.

* * *

_"One."_

Gargled screams pierce the air; the sound of something wet tearing in the evening light.

_"T-two."_

The carriage creaks as something smacks onto the cobbles just behind you with a broken crack, and a tear tracks down your face as you try not to sob.

_"Three."_

"Please! Oh G--Please--!"

_"F...F...Four..."_

Whispered from your lips is a silent prayer, and you swear you feel rushing wind whipping closer.

_"Five."_

_Don't kill me. _

_"Six."_

A shadow flickers from the corner of your vision, and with it: the sight of something being torn from a body. _Ripped asunder._

_"Seven..."_

Your skirts are dragging, and you're shaking as you sob. Shaking, and breaking, and burning from the fear.

_"Eight."_

"NO! NO, STOP--!"

"Nine--"

A horrid sound of wet moans: dark and rich, as though from a mix of pleasure and pain.

_"Ten."_

And on ten?

Well, on ten: _you run._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOH WHAT DID HE DO  
[Come talk to me over on Tumblr!](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


End file.
